"That's what he gave me for the picture, and, asking your pardon, Sir, I think I have done well with him. It was one of those Italian image-men, who took a fancy to it. He offered at first only those vases. Then he sprang to a statuette of GARIBALDI. But, after a deal of discussion, I got him to chuck in Westminster Abbey, Sir, which, as you see, can be lighted up magnificent." For a moment I was struck speechless with sorrow and indignation. No doubt the foreign hawker, having received an art education in Italy (the renowned dwelling-place of the Muses), had recognised the value of my picture, and had----. I paused in my train of thought, and jumped from despair to joy. There, resting on a newly-renovated perambulator, was my Old Master. I almost wept as I recognised my nearly lost VON BÖOTZ. "But there it is!" I hoarsely whispered, pointing to the picture. "The canvas, yes Sir--the Italian chap only wanted the frame. He called the donkey lot rubbish." Again my iron will and steel determination came to the front. To secure the canvas, charter another four-wheeler, and deposit myself and my prize within the cab's depths was the work of not more than five-and-twenty minutes. I drove as hurriedly as the congested traffic would permit to the house of a well-known connoisseur. I sent up my card, and was immediately admitted. The celebrated critic was a perfect stranger to me. "This must serve as an introduction," I said, and exposed my VON BÖOTZ to view. The connoisseur inspected the canvas, the leaden sky, and the villagers with languid interest. At last his gaze fell upon the presentment of the donkey. His eyes sparkled, his cheeks flushed with excitement; and although he was evidently attempting to master his emotion, he almost shouted "Magnificent!" "Are not the ears splendid?" I asked. "Splendid? Glorious! Immortal!" "Have you seen anything to equal the mane?" "Never! Emphatically, never!" And then the art connoisseur shook me by both hands. Then we once more inspected the donkey's ears, and in our delight nearly rose and floated from the floor in a sort of medieval saint-like ecstasy. "You see it has one fault," my conscience made me say; "it has no signature." "A proof that it is a genuine VON BÖOTZ. The grand old forger never signed anything except copies. As you know, he was scarcely ever sober, and in his drunken moods used to write his name on any kind of canvas at the rate of a tumbler of port a signature." "And it is only right to add," I continued, in my character of Devil's Advocate, and using a piece of information I had picked up from APPLEBLOSSOM, Q.C., "that it is not in the least like a print which is supposed to be a contemporaneous engraving." "The best possible proof that it is an original. Old VON BÖOTZ--glorious old scoundrel--never painted anything that was really reproduced. He preferred to betray his public by signing the works of subordinates. That's the reason why he is so scarce. Oh, those ears!"